The Parselmouth League
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: A short one-shot set in my Potterlock universe during the summer between John Watson's sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts. Based heavily on the ACD-canon plot of The Red-Headed League. Makes more sense if you read A Study in Green & Silver, The Blind Goblin, and The Great Quidditch Game first.


**The Parselmouth League**

"Watson! Watson, over here! I'm open!"

John feigned to the left, dodged to the right. The football moved between his feet like it belonged there, and the muddy pitch squelched beneath his sneakers. His foot reared back- his insole made contact with the ball- he passed-

And the ball sailed right past John's intended and into the clutches of the opposing team. Damn. Football really was _not_ John's sport.

He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and trotted off in the direction of the ball, but a voice halted him. "Oi! Johnny!"

Shielding his eyes from the sun, John looked back towards his front stoop. Harry. Whatever _she_ wanted could wait. He turned back towards the ball and-

"Johnny, you tosser! There's some skinny git waiting for you! And besides that, Mum wants you home for dinner!"

"Fine! All right!" John gave an apologetic shrug to his teammates and jogged back to the house, suddenly aware of the dirt all over his clothes and the sweat streaming down his face.

x

Sherlock Holmes- with his posh suit, impossibly pale skin, and ethereal eyes- looked so out of place in John's shabby sitting room that the eldest boy found himself momentarily speechless. He did, after a painfully long moment, manage to croak out: "Tea?"

"No time," Sherlock said, true to form and brusque as always. "We've got a case. Let's go."

John's throat loosened. "Wait, hold on. How did you get here?" He looked around for Head Auror Lestrade but found the room devoid of anyone but himself and Sherlock, who, at sixteen, was too young to Apparate on his own.

"I can always depend on you to ask the questions with the most obvious answers," Sherlock sighed. "My shoes, John. See the ash?"

"But…" John looked accusingly at his fireplace. "I'm not connected to the Floo Network."

Sherlock flapped his hand uninterestedly. "I sent some men here over the winter. I'm told Mrs. Watson believes they were cleaning the chimney."

"Great. That's just…" John shook his head and squinted at the rest of the room. "Anything else I should know? Maybe you bugged my room, or turned my mum's dressing gown into a portkey? Well?"

"I won't continue this conversation, not if you're going to take _that_ attitude," Sherlock sniffed. "Besides, we don't have time. There's a fat little man with a surprisingly interesting case waiting impatiently for us in my study, and I need you to talk to him."

Despite himself, John's interest was piqued. He hadn't seen Sherlock since leaving Platform 9 ¾ nearly a month before, and enough time had passed since the Moriarty debacle that John was more than ready to get back to work. Still… "Why do you need _me_ to talk to him?"

Sherlock's grin was just a touch mischievous. "His face puts me off."

Laughing, John shook his head. "Fine, okay. You've convinced me. Shall we Apparate this time?"

"Mm. The Floo is so…distasteful." Sherlock glanced towards the kitchen, where John's mum was humming and banging dishes around. "Do you need to…?"

"Hmm? Oh, no." John shrugged. "I'm not…it's fine. Really."

Sherlock, to John's thankful surprise, did not pursue the subject.

x

There was in fact a fat little man in Sherlock's private study, sitting in an ancient wingback chair and fiddling with his mustache. "It's about time!" he cried as John and Sherlock entered the room. He kicked his feet as he spoke, drawing attention to the fact that they didn't quite reach the floor. "I've been waiting three-quarters of an hour! And- oho, who's this grubby young man? Boy, identify yourself!" The man's voice boomed as he bellowed.

John shot a glance at Sherlock, but the Slytherin boy merely folded his arms and frowned, so John shrugged and replied, "I'm John Watson, and…and this is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes. I understand you have a-"

"Well, of course he's Sherlock Holmes!" the little man shouted. "I bloody well know that, don't I? Sherlock Holmes, oh yes! That's why I'm here, isn't it? Read about him in the papers! Hero of Hogwarts and all that sensationalist nonsense! Well, if you're so clever, boy, answer me this: where have those fellows gone with _my _money?"

Sherlock remained frozen in stony silence for so long that John began to shift uncomfortably. Eventually he felt forced to say, "Look…why don't you just, uh, just tell us the whole story. Right from the beginning."

"The likes of you should be addressing me as 'sir', young man!" he bellowed. "But very well! I'm Mr. Jabez Wilson. Undoubtedly you've heard of me!" Ignoring John's blank look and Sherlock's scowl, he went on: "One month ago today my house-elf brought me a newspaper clipping he'd found in the street. After thrashing the disgusting creature for its insolence, I happened to give the clipping a brief once-over. Imagine my astonishment at discovering that a group of wizards called the Parselmouth League were looking for new members that very day and that, as a member, I would be entitled to one Galleon a day, five days a week, after only the most minor of labors! Oho! After I thrashed that damned house-elf once more for its presumptive nature, I grabbed my best cloak and top hat and set out for Knockturn Alley! Now, now, let it never be said that this old man was too craven to visit even that most wretched place!

"Well, then! I found the Parselmouth League Headquarters easily enough, all things considered. Magically enhanced, the building was, so that the front lobby could hold scores of wizards- oh, and witches, too, bless their silly souls! Ah, yes, the wait was long and arduous, Mr. Holmes, but I'm nothing if not diligent! At long last, I was called into the main office. By two gentlemen, you know, and distinguished looking chaps at that! Mm, well, they had me speak to this barmy little boa in a tank, some rubbish about Australia, and then they told me something I already knew: I am extremely well versed in Parseltongue! 'Exemplary', they said, and no surprise to me! Oho, yes indeed I am, and well I should be! Why, I'm descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, aren't I?"

"Hmm, yes," Sherlock cut in, "aren't we all?"

Mr. Wilson ignored him entirely. "Oh yes," he said, more to himself than anything else, "and all that was well enough, to be certain, but ah! When I discovered that I had been chosen above all the others to join the Parselmouth League- boys, you cannot imagine it! I was as near to ecstasy as any Englishman can be…while still retaining my dignity, of course! Why, only once before in my life had I been so thoroughly chuffed, and that was just after the Battle of Hogwarts in the year of 1997! You boys weren't even thoughts in your mother's minds back then! Merlin's sake, I myself was only a boy then, as green as a blade of grass, you hear, and twice as foolish! Why I remember-"

Sensing that Mr. Wilson was getting a bit off track, John cleared his throat and asked, "You said there was some work involved, didn't you, for members of the Parselmouth League? Could you tell us what sort of work, exactly?"

"Good question, John," Sherlock said pleasantly, at the same instant that Mr. Wilson cried out, "Never interrupt me, boy! I've gelded men for less, I'll have you know! Now, a-hum, ah, what was the question? Ah, yes! The work! One Galleon a day, you understand, five days a week! And all I had to do was go to London Zoo from four to six pm. I was tasked with interviewing the snakes, you see, and filling out a questionnaire each day! That's it! Well, now, that was no bother at all! I needed only send the questionnaire along with my house-elf to the League Headquarters each evening. And always- always, Mr. Holmes- the little beast returned with my sweet, shiny Galleon! Mind you, I had to beat the bloody beast for putting its grubby little fingers on my money, but! I find that nothing quite gets the blood up like earning a bit of pocket change and flogging an inferior! And when you can combine the two…well!"

John, appalled into absolute silence, could only blink at the man. Perhaps sensing John's rising anger, Sherlock took over the questioning. "When and how," he asked, stepping subtly into John's path, "did you come to acquire this house-elf of yours?"

"A rude question, young man, quite rude, and yet I can assure you that the exchange was perfectly legal!" Mr. Wilson made a noise that sound like a cross between clearing his throat and blowing a raspberry.

"Yes, all right," Sherlock groaned. "_When _did you acquire the house-elf?"

"Why…" Mr. Wilson considered for a moment, his mustache twitching so rapidly it looked as though it were gearing up for flight. At last, he said, "Well, it must have been just over a month ago! Yes, that's it, and do you know? He's been most excellent, right up until today! Have a listen to this! Spauldy! Spauldy, you insolent little creature! Your master is calling! There, see that? Isn't it a house-elf's credo to respond to his master's call on all occasions, barring death?" Mr. Wilson stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Perhaps the dreadful beast truly has died. And there's my luck, Mr. Holmes! I've lost my house-elf and my paycheck both, and on the same day! I stopped by the Parselmouth League Headquarters myself, just this evening, on account of my house-elf disappearing! And do you know what I discovered?"

"The place was abandoned," Sherlock said softly, his eyes shining in the peculiar way they had of doing when he was intrigued.

"Indeed so! Well, now, and here's why I've come to you! I want my position back, Mr. Holmes! I refuse to lose my five Galleons a week, you see!" Mr. Wilson's face had gone rather red at this point.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "All right, Mr. Wilson. I'll take the case."

"You can't be serious!" John hissed. "He's positively abominable, Sherlock! And we're going to _help _him?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock grinned. "And _pro bono _at that. Mr. Wilson? I'll be needing to have a look at your home in, say, an hour? Where did you say you lived?"

"Why, Godric's Hollow, m'boy! The finest Wizarding community in all of Great Britain!" Mr. Wilson slid off the chair and to his feet; he was, in fact, shorter standing than he'd been sitting. "The old Peverell house, young man! And don't be late!"

"Have some tea waiting, Mr. Wilson, and some biscuits as well. Chocolate ones, preferably. My colleague here is missing his supper." Sherlock smiled.

"The cheek of you! And yet- I approve of your spirit! Chocolate biscuits it is, young man!" Mr. Wilson swept his top hat from his head, bowed deeply, straightened, and climbed into the fireplace. Seconds later, he was gone.

"Right then," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together. "John, take off those clothes."

"Sorry, what?" John flushed and immediately began to fidget.

"Your clothes, John. You're filthy. I'm going to have Mrs. Hudson run them through the wash." Sherlock looked at John appraisingly. "You could stand a bath."

"I…" John shook his head. "I'm not undressing here!"

"What? Why not?" Sherlock cocked his eyebrow. "It's not as though I've never seen you naked."

Blushing from the tips of his ears all the way to his toes, John squeaked, "Yes, well. Then we were…you know…and now we're…well, you know!"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose even higher. "Would it help if I undressed as well?"

"No!" John ran his hand down his face and started off towards the bathroom. "Just…you just stay…_dressed_, for the love of God." He pulled the door closed behind him and locked it as quickly as though he'd been chased by a monster.

x

Freshly cleaned and in hastily laundered clothes, John emerged from the bathroom only to be swept up by Mrs. Hudson and thoroughly smooched. When she'd apparently had her fill, John wiped the lipstick stains from his face with the back of his hand and laughed, "Hello to you, too, Mrs. H."

"Sherlock told me all about…" She glanced back at Sherlock, who was pretending not to listen as he fiddled with his scarf, and dropped her voice. "...your little tiff. Broke my poor heart! I'm not as young as I was, I told him, and all I want out of life is to see my sweet Sherlock happy-"

John was reasonably certain of two things: he absolutely did not want to be having this conversation, and no one had ever before referred to Sherlock as 'sweet'. He cleared his throat and said, loudly, "Well, Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure Sherlock's eager to be off-"

"Oh, on the contrary," Sherlock said, smiling wickedly, "I'm in no hurry at all. Take your time."

"Right, well, actually," John stammered, "I'm in a bit of a hurry, so…Mrs. Hudson, it was lovely seeing you. Sherlock, shall we?"

Sherlock shrugged and took John's arm, marching him down the stairs and towards the front hall. "Farewell, Mrs. Hudson!" he called over his shoulder.

The poor old woman made a sound suspiciously like sniffle as she watched them go.

x

They walked to the gates (like Hogwarts, one could not simply Apparate on to the Holmes estate) in reasonably good spirits, though John was still extraordinarily confused and voiced as much. "Why are we helping this horrible man, Sherlock?" he said, rubbing at his chin. "And for free…it makes no sense."

Sherlock smiled a secret little smile. "Doesn't it intrigue you, John? Consider it: the Parselmouth League. Whoever heard of such a thing? Why would such a league exist, and why would it vanish so suddenly?"

"I don't know," John admitted.

"Nor do I," Sherlock said cheerfully, "but I have a reasonably good idea. And I don't think our Mr. Wilson will much care for the reason, either."

x

Arm in arm, they Apparated just outside of the Godric's Hollow cemetery, shivering a little at the change in temperature. Sherlock buttoned his blazer, John zipped his hoodie, and the pair set off quickly down the village's main road.

Godric's Hollow had been a mainly Wizarding community for centuries, and it showed. Most of the front gardens bore plants commonly used in potions- gurdyroot, bouncing bulbs, puffapods, and more- and the homes were often oddly decorated. They walked past the ruins of the Potter house (John peering at it curiously; Sherlock ignoring it entirely) and towards the sloping hill that led down to the river, as well as the ancestral home of the now-defunct Wizarding family of Peverell. It was a pleasant walk; the air was cool and the sun was behind them, and birds throughout the wooded path sang of the swift-approaching dusk. John thought briefly of his mother and whether she was worrying about him (or slipping into a medicated slumber, which seemed more likely)- but then Sherlock was nudging him and pointing and all thoughts of his family vanished entirely.

The Peverell house- if one could call the sprawling, beautiful manse a mere _house_- sat just on the edge of the water, the clapboard spotless, windows gleaming, and grounds immaculate. Pixies flitted from rosebush to rosebush, and a sleek, elegant thestral grazed beside the river. "Wow," John breathed, his eyes round.

"Verbose as usual," said Sherlock, the smallest smile tugging at one side of his mouth. The expression faded as he took in the sights around him, his silver eyes going sharp and eager. "Come along, John," he said imperiously, already striding towards the house. "I need more data."

They climbed the impeccably clean and varnished porch steps and Sherlock reached for the knocker- just as the door swung open, revealing nothing to John but darkness and dust motes.

Sherlock, however, immediately recoiled, a repugnant look on his face. "Lestrade?" He took a step forward, pushing the door open all the way and bathing the Head Auror in sunlight. "What are you doing here? This is my case!"

Lestrade folded his arms and, looking cross, opened his mouth to speak, but a voice boomed out of the shadows and cut over his. "Aha!" Mr. Wilson cried. It was all John could do not to roll his eyes. "As if I'd let a pair of teen-aged hooligans roam about my house unguarded, passing their filthy little hands all over my treasures! Not a chance!" He stepped out into the sunshine and squinted at Sherlock mistrustfully.

Sherlock, to John's astonishment, actually grinned, "It's a little late for that, I'm afraid. Now, Mr. Wilson, I believe you owe us some tea. And while you fetch it, I'd like you to consider this question carefully: how long has it been since you personally have been in your cellar?"

Mr. Wilson spluttered furiously, his mustache wobbling perilously. "What is the meaning of this, boy?" he shouted, as Lestrade warningly sighed, "Sherlock…"

The boy detective pushed his way into the house and John followed on his heels, peering at the dark interior of the house and instinctively touching his wand in his pocket. If the outside of the house was splendorous and flawless, the inside was its exact opposite. The floor- draped with a threadbare carpet and an inch-thick layer of dust- creaked beneath their feet. The wallpaper was peeling, the curtains were moth-eaten, and the portraits on the wall were either slumped and snoozing or nowhere to be seen. Mr. Wilson, pulling himself to his full (and frankly unimpressive, even to John) height, sniffed, "One keep up appearances, young man! Certainly _you're _in no position to judge me!"

The statement was directed at John, but it was Sherlock who spoke first. "Allow me to rephrase the question," he said, kneeling down in front of one of the doors in the main corridor and looking it over carefully. "Have you been to the cellar since your home was featured in the Daily Prophet last month?"

The little man's posture shifted and his face litup with pride. "Saw that, did you? Oh yes, those were fine photographs! Taken in the garden, of course, the better to highlight my beautiful treasures! What did you think, m'boy?"

"I didn't see them," Sherlock said dismissively, twiddling the frail-looking skeleton key he'd plucked from the door's lock between his fingers. "I never bother with the drivel they publish in the Prophet."

"Prefers the Quibbler, I imagine," Lestrade whispered to John.

Mr. Wilson puffed up again. "Heard about the article from someone else, then? I can't say I'm surprised; it was quite popular!"

Sherlock put his hands behind his back, as he often did before reciting his deductions. "I inferred the existence of the article from two things, mainly. One: your belief that John and I both, despite our obviously different backgrounds, should recognize you by name. And, two: your acquisition of the house-elf you called Spauldy."

Turning rather pink, Mr. Wilson looked back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade. "I've told you," he crowed, "the means by which I acquired that house-elf were entirely legal!"

"Yes, but not entirely honorable, were they?" Sherlock pressed his palms together beneath his nose, looking down at Mr. Wilson keenly. "There are two legal means of gaining a new house-elf: outright purchase- clearly not the way you went- and mutually agreed-upon trade. Tell me, what did Spauldy's previous owner want in exchange? Something of meretricious value, I'm sure."

"I'll have you know that I was the one approached! Never did I try to pass anything off, young man, nor would I! Is it my fault that the silly fellow was so interested in my pocket watch?"

"As a matter of fact it is, though you could have hardly known it at the time. At any rate, I believe you; I'm sure the man seemed convinced your pocket watch held some extraordinary worth. Was it a replica of something more famous? No…perhaps it had been falsely stamped with the Peverell symbol of the Deathly Hallows?"

Mr. Wilson harrumphed embarrassedly. "That symbol has many meanings," he said, though his voice was noticeably quieter.

"To be certain," Sherlock said agreeably, "and it must have seemed that to Spauldy's owner the Peverell pocket watch meant untold riches. I imagine he mentioned the watch in a disheartened tone, mentioning how down on his luck he was, and what meager offerings he could present in the hopes of a trade. The only bargaining chip he had was his house-elf, isn't that right?"

"I don't know who you've been talking to-" Mr. Wilson began angrily, but Lestrade spoke over him. "Sherlock, is this relevant?"

"Exceedingly," Sherlock said. He went on rapidly: "You recognized the self-beneficial nature of the trade and happily went forth, swapping the worthless watch for the house-elf. Shortly thereafter Spauldy brought you the notice for the Parselmouth League. Mr. Wilson, did it truly never cross your mind that you had become the victim of systematic theft?"

"Oh," John gasped, finally putting the pieces together.

"Preposterous!" Mr. Wilson cried. "Outrageous! Unthinkable!"

"And yet unfortunately true. Unlike myself, Spauldy's owner _did _see the article in the Daily Prophet, with your name and village thoughtlessly listed therein. You're a man of regular habits- even if I weren't able to see it in your hair and clothing and the coin-purse which you keep surreptitiously fondling in your pocket, it's more than evident in the dust that coats so much of your house- so it wouldn't have been difficult to track you down. Were I grading the thief, I'd certainly award him points for ingenuity. The excuse he engineered to get you away from not only the house but the village itself was…creative, to say the least." Sherlock crossed over to one of the windows and pushed a musty curtain aside, revealing a small but well-kept boat ramp out by the river. "They plundered the cellar each day while you were off in London, chatting with the snakes. The valuables were brought up and taken out to a waiting skiff or raft, which carried your belongings away to locations unknown. Judging by how long they were at it- about a month, wouldn't you say?- there must have been an absolute wealth of artifacts and treasures at their disposal…perhaps even things you yourself had failed to uncover when your purchased the house."

Mr. Wilson's face was so swollen and red that John worried the little man might explode. Lestrade, however, looked unconvinced. "The cellar," he said, rubbing his chin. "You keep talking about the cellar."

"That's where Mr. Wilson kept his more precious belongings," Sherlock shrugged. "And for the better, in my opinion. Imagine displaying precious antiquities in _this_ setting."

"Right," said Lestrade ponderously, "but how did you know? About the cellar, I mean. He didn't tell you, did he?" A bit sullenly, he added, "He didn't tell _me_, anyway."

"The dust told me, though I'd guessed as much as soon as the front door opened." Sherlock slid the key into place and turned it with a click, swinging open a door and revealing a set of terrifying looking stairs. "Look here. The dust is displaced all the way to the door, and you can see the same displacement pattern all the way down the stairs. Mr. Wilson isn't going into the cellar, obviously."

"Why 'obviously'?" asked John, feeling a bit slow for wondering.

"Mr. Wilson is small and fat and relies on servitude for most if not all of his needs," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Why would he go down into the cellar, especially on such a regular basis?"

Lestrade frowned. "How did you know that door led to the cellar?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Air flow. Have we quibbled enough now? I'd like to go down and confirm my theory."

They all looked to Mr. Wilson, who had been silently quivering with angry, his face slowly moving from red to plum to violet. Taking his silence as agreement, Sherlock clapped his hands together and disappeared down the groaning cellar steps.

x

The search of the cellar confirmed Sherlock's story perfectly. Mr. Wilson ran his hands along empty shelves and dug through empty crates, small squeaking noises escaping his throat at each forlorn discovery. Everything was gone: the items he'd had photographed for the Prophet, the lesser goods he'd kept boxed up…even, as Sherlock had suspected, the things Mr. Wilson had yet to catalogue. "Spauldy!" Mr. Wilson sobbed as the search came to an end, sweat streaming down his face. "Come here now, you miserable beast, and take the thrashing owed to you!" He balled his fists and looked at Sherlock, his eyes blazing. "You can find them, can't you? My things? My elf?"

"I could," Sherlock replied, his tone bland, "but I won't. Unfortunately for you, Mr. Wilson, the more interesting aspects of this case have already been revealed. You'll have to leave the bounty hunting in the always capable hands of the Auror department. Lestrade, Mr. Wilson, good day to you both. John and I will see ourselves out." He took the cellar steps two at a time, John lagging behind.

They jogged out into the blissfully fresh evening air, John suppressing giggles behind his fist. "I know it's awful," he managed between laughs, "but his face! If anyone deserved to have to have his things nicked literally right from underneath him, it was Mr. Wilson."

"I agree wholly," Sherlock said amenably, slowing to a stroll. "A wretched man deserves a wretched fate."

"Now that's a surprise." John stopped and looked at Sherlock interestedly. "No argument about the inexactitude of the terms good and bad? No discussion of motive or the twists of the human psyche?"

"None from me. Mr. Wilson was a wretch, plain and simple." Sherlock sighed and looked around at the pretty scenery. "Now, John, if you'd be so kind, I think it's time to get back to the Manor."

X

"Your tea," Sherlock said the very moment their feet touched ground outside the Holmes estate. "It seems we forgot it. Stay for dinner?"

"I can't," John said, not entirely truthfully. "Mum's expecting me, I'm sure. But, um….this was fun. You can stop by mine anytime, you know, not just for a case."

"Mm-hmm." Glancing back at the Manor, Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps. Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock." John watched Sherlock stride off into the settling darkness until he was too far away to see, and then Apparated back into his own bedroom. Downstairs the telly was blaring the evening news and his sister was slurring her opinions at the screen. In all probability, his mum was in the next bedroom, drooling and snoring into her pillow. Typical evening in the Watson household, then. Sighing, John unzipped his jacket and kicked off his trainers, and then settled down to write up the remarkable case of the Parselmouth League.


End file.
